22 DREAMS

Author's note: This is not a song fic, I officially don't do song fics. Though...it may be an album fic, a concept album at that. These stories are written to/influenced by the 22 tracks on the very brilliant Paul Weller's very brilliant "concept" album 22 Dreams.

DREAM 1: LIGHT NIGHTS

They say there aren’t seasons in Los Angeles. But there are. He notices them acutely, better than most, because he was deprived of them for twelve years. The first day of the start of summer – not the first day of summer, mind you, not the solstice, he’s no pagan - the first day when he can feel it coming.

That first day when, at the end of shift, after paperwork and bullshit, tired and frustrated because today they fought the crime and the crime won a little, drained and ready to not be wearing shoes, he notices that the sky isn’t completely dark yet.

Notices he doesn’t feel so tired anymore.

Come out to play, now the light nights are here.

Notices he isn’t quite as frustrated anymore. But still thinking about taking off his shoes. Thinking about maybe taking a walk on the beach in bare feet for the first time in forever.

How we’ll dance, now the light nights are here.

Notices that one last ray of burnt sunshine hits her hair when she lets it down as they walk to their cars on the roof of the parking garage. Notices the streaks of light in the dark, the caramel in the chocolate. Notices how long her hair is getting lately.

We’ll love, now the light nights are here.

Are they natural, those caramel streaks? Or does she go to the salon to have them put in? He can’t imagine her in a salon. Shooting the shit with the colorist. Reading Cosmo or Elle or In Style.

Reading Gun ‘N’ Ammo, maybe.

Their cars, parked next to each other. She’s unlocking her car, tossing her hair back. The lone fiery ray strikes her cheek now, refracts into her eyes and makes them glow like embers. The light fading fast, the sky already purple behind her head, shadows down the other side of her face. She shucks off her jacket, her breast pressing against the pale blue cotton of her shirt.

He blinks.

“What?” she asks, catching him staring.

Make me feel that I’m wanted.

Innocently. “What?”

Maybe she’d go too. To the beach. And take her shoes off. Hold his hand.

He does know he’s an idiot – he’s aware of that fact.

“Crews.” That tone, that tone she uses when she knows he wants something and knows he’s too chickenshit to just say what it is.

I’ve been so very frozen.

“I was just thinking,” he blurts out. About your breasts and your feet.

She stares back, waits. Indulging him because she’s willing to these days. But not for long, he knows. She’ll get into her car in a moment.

Make me feel that I’m chosen.

“I dreamt last night that I was a butterfly. Flitting around, you know, like butterflies do. Suddenly, I woke up, a person again. Then I thought, ‘Am I a man who dreams about being a butterfly, or am I a butterfly who dreams about being a man?’"

She stares. No – she glares. There’s a distinct difference.

Then the corner of her mouth lifts the instant before she disappears inside her car and slams the door shut, turns the engine over with a roar.

“See you tomorrow, Reese,” he says to the back of her retreating car.

Now the days are getting longer, my thoughts are getting stronger.

TBC.